


Good Talk, Dad

by kaihire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, M/M, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:19:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaihire/pseuds/kaihire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They were the words that instilled fear in the heart of any teenager, and particularly one who was prone to dabbling in the sorts of things that a parent would undoubtedly disapprove of.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>“Stiles, we should talk.”</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>And that tone. That tone was the absolute worst, ok, because it meant that he didn’t actually have any wiggle room. His dad was doing that thing with his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth and he’d cornered him, and that wasn’t fair at all.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or,</p>
<p>The Sheriff thinks he and Stiles need to have a talk. The problem is, Stiles thinks they're having a different talk altogether. Written (very belatedly) for a Sterek Campaign auction fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Talk, Dad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ihni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihni/gifts).



They were the words that instilled fear in the heart of any teenager, and particularly one who was prone to dabbling in the sorts of things that a parent would undoubtedly disapprove of.

 

“Stiles, we should talk.”

 

And that tone. That tone was the absolute _worst_ , ok, because it meant that he didn’t actually have any wiggle room. His dad was doing that thing with his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth and he’d cornered him, and that wasn’t fair at all.

 

See, the two-man circus they called a family had probably the least consistent schedule of anyone that Stiles knew. His dad’s shifts were, theoretically, written in stone, but reality wasn’t even on the same _planet_ because things came up, people got sick, cases ran over, and all in all the life of the town sheriff was never going to fit into a 9-5.

 

Then there was Stiles and his whole, you know, high school thing, which only ate up a tiny percentage of his day, and then lacrosse, and sometimes he actually studied (or tried to, when he could get enough Addreall on board that he could focus, though that almost inevitably meant insomnia and a cycle of sleepless brainlessness which fucked over any possible hope of doing any _other_ work, so it had to be timed just right and usually only worth risking on high grade-weight projects and finals etc), and then the rest of the time he was wrapped up in some sort of supernatural shitstorm because Beacon Hills had become the freaking world center of all things screwy (in Stiles’ opinion) and if it wasn’t Scott freaking out about Allison because _werewolves_ and _hunters_ then it was Derek or Isaac crawling through his window on some sort of little werewolf errand because apparently nobody had Google-fu like Stiles had Google-fu.

 

_So_.

  
What that meant, all of that, was that Stilinski family time was super-duper sacred, and for all their mutual flaws (ok, Stiles was willing to concede that at least 98.731% of the flaws were on his side of the glass) they had one hard and fast rule that was very, very rarely broken: once a week, hell or high water (or werewolves or suspicious crimes or locals with pitchforks over some new parking ticket law) the two Stilinskis sat down at the table and had an honest-to-God family sit-down meal together.

 

(And if it was always a tug of war between Stiles wanting to make his dad eat steamed bean sprouts with reduced-sodium soy-free soy sauce while his father made a bold attempt to order a bucket of double-breaded fried chicken because _dammit Stiles, I’m your father and if I want to order a heart attack in a bucket, I sure as hell can, because I’m the adult here_ which, Stiles pointed out, would never stand up in an international court of law so here’s your raw kale salad—if it always degenerated into that, well, that was just part of the ceremony, and just as sacred.)

 

Which was _why_ it was so crummy (Stiles would venture to call it _criminal_ and definitely _not cool_ ) that his father decided to corner him after family dinner time (dad had only eaten half his burger bun and most of the fries but all of the broccoli which, in Stiles’ book, was a win) while he was elbows-deep in suds and pots and pans and with that _look_ on his face that meant this wasn’t up for discussion.

 

“Uh. Right now?” he squeaked, because, wow, dad, two for you for actually managing to pin him down proper. He could abandon spoon and dive out the window but his old man’s reflexes were pretty damn snappy so, yeah, not particularly viable (though tempting). “I have a thing, for school, that—“

 

“A thing?”

 

“Yeah, a thing, you know, a thing with—“

 

“Stiles—“

 

“And if I don’t get the thing thinged out by tomorrow then—“

 

“ _Stiles_ —“

 

“—and Harris already hates me, so the thing with the stuff has to be totally—“

 

“Stiles, I _know_.”

 

Oh.

 

… _oh._

 

“Oh.” It took a second for his brain to engage, while every neuron screamed _deflect deflect deflect_. “Uh. I’m pretty sure I have no idea what you’re—“

 

“I talked to Melissa, Stiles. I _know_.” And shit, his dad sounded _disappointed_. “But that’s not important. I just,” and crap, he was putting his hands in his pockets and looking guilty and yeah, ok, way to twist the knife in his gut, ok, because seriously, “I just want to understand why you didn’t think you could tell me. I’m your father. You know that I love you no matter what.”

 

Fuck. Fuck, he was just pulling out all the stops, wasn’t he, and here Stiles was, still holding a spoon like it was going to make everything better while his chest just felt increasingly constricted.

 

But ok. Ok, so his dad knew about werewolves. Some small part of him felt he had to be relieved, because wow, Stiles had _not_ been looking forward to that talk, but way to go dad, now he was feeling like public menace numero uno.

 

“I know, dad,” he managed to _not squeak_ _in a really unmanly way_ (ok he totally did), rinsing off his hands and drying them on his shirt because, fuck. Kudos to his dad for not even caring about his kid ignoring the kitchen towel he was holding out. “I love you too, and it’s not about that. I just wanted to protect you—“

 

“Protect _me?_ Stiles, I’m your _father_. It’s my job to protect _you_.” The sheriff ran a hand through his hair, one of the nervous gestures they shared. “Now I’m glad I had that talk with Melissa, because when you say things like that it makes me want to break down Derek Hale’s door and—“

 

“It’s not his fault.”

 

And wow, ok, _there_ was a look that shut him up.

 

“Not his fault? Stiles, you’re sixteen—“

 

“Almost seventeen!”

 

“ _Sixteen_ , and if I thought he was forcing you to do any of this—“

 

“It’s really more Scott’s fault,” Stiles said, but hey, he could see how the big bad alpha was the more tempting target than you kid’s best friend. “He’s the one who got bitten in the first place.”

 

Confusion. Crap. Confusion wasn’t good. Why was there confusion?

 

“Bitten?”

 

“Well, yeah, dad, _bitten_. You know, _the bite_ bitten. By Peter. Who was the alpha.”

 

It was sort of like they were satellites orbiting plants on opposite ends of the galaxy. The way his father was looking at him made Stiles wonder if their radio waves were actually even crossing paths or if this was all—

 

“What the hell are you talking about, Stiles?”

 

“…uh. What are _you_ talking about, dad?” because this was all just seriously not making sense.

 

“I’m talking about you. And Derek Hale. Being _together_.”

 

Oh.

 

… _oh._

 

“Oh.”

 

“Which I’m not _happy_ about, but I’m _ok_ with, because you’re my son, and I love you, and I trust you to know what you want, and I know that Melissa grilled Scott about it and that kid can lie about as well as a _guinea pig_ so I know that you instigated it and that apparently there’s a lot of things I don’t like about Derek Hale, but that he put up more than token protest and I swear if he so much as thinks about letting you in his pants before you’re eighteen—“

 

“Oh my _god_ —“

 

“—then I will personally put him on the sex offenders registry and get a restraining order and—“

 

“Oh my _god_ dad—“

 

“—he will get locked up in a supermax, because I’m the sheriff, and I can _do_ that.”

 

Was now when the ground was supposed to open up and eat him? Because now would be _great_.

 

But then the sheriff pulled Stiles into a hug, and ok, weakness, so he hugged back and tried not to be sick to his stomach about everything in the world ever.

 

“So what I’m saying is that I _know_ , and it’s ok, but I expect you to be mature and responsible and _think_ about your actions. And you’re bringing him to dinner next week so he and I can have a little talk,” ok tight hug tight hug ow _ribs_ ow ok dad ow, “about how I expect him to behave around my son. And how I expect him to let my son behave around _him_.”

 

“ _Hey._ ”

 

“Don’t think I don’t know whose fault this is.”

 

Alright, fair was fair. Stiles straightened his shirt (lost cause) and cleared his throat.

 

“Well. Um. Good talk, dad, uh—“

 

“Oh, we’re not done here,” the sheriff said, crossing his arms over his chest. “What did _you_ think I was talking about?”

 

“Oh, nothing,” Stiles laughed, nervous and so fucking transparent, “just a—“

 

“— _thing_ , yeah, ok, wise guy. Sit down. You’re going to tell me about Scott, and,” finger quotes, seriously? “the _bite_ , and what Peter Hale has to do with anything. And Stiles? What the hell is an _alpha_?”

 

Aw, crap.


End file.
